"I want to see you, my love . . ."
His voice echoed into the darkened room, his lips against her skin. She'd been so lost inside the decadence that was Edward Volturi, she hadn't noticed their advance toward the bedroom. She heard the gentle click of the door shutting behind him, and the sound pulled her away from the feeling of his breath whispering against her collarbone. She opened her eyes to survey her surroundings, which were shrouded in darkness.
Edward pulled away from her body just a bit, and there was just enough light for her to see him waiting for her response.
He wanted to see her? Did that mean he wanted to turn the lights on?
If so, that was something different, indeed. In fact, she didn't remember any previous lover asking if they could see her before, during, or after they'd done the deed. She just figured they'd found her lacking, and wanted to replace whatever images they contained in their "spank bank" in order to help assist their performance.
Knowing that Edward wanted to see her, to watch her body as it reacted to hers, made her feel all the more cherished. Knowing that he'd asked permission beforehand melted her heart, and not for the first time, she thrilled in the understanding that he kept her needs in the forefront on his mind, even with the rock hard distraction throbbing next to her pelvis.
How can he keep my needs in focus when he has that as a very prominent distraction?
And yet, she had found Edward to be very different than other men. Perhaps he could multi-task? Whatever the case had been, he wanted to feast his eyes on her as he finally consumed her body, and she felt a heady sense of urgency warm her blood at the thought.
Part of her wanted to focus on whether Edward would like what he'd see once she'd been bared before him, but she'd been down that road before and didn't want to get lost inside her own mind. She'd read somewhere that confident men found it a very profound turn off when they gave a compliment to a woman and they brushed it off, like their opinion hadn't matter beyond her own self-proclaimed worth. After reading that, Bella had made a supreme effort not to thwart Edward's doting or affections.
And tonight would not be any different.
Tonight, she'd focus on how he made her feel. Concentrating on his words mixed with the intoxicating feeling of his touch would far outweigh any perceived perception of herself she could conceive in his point of view.
She'd stick with her own observations of him. And what it vantage point it was becoming. . .
Edward seemed to gauge her acquiescence to turn a bit of light on in her expression, for his own turned wicked, hungry. She slowly lowered herself to the bed and watched him with wide, licentious eyes as he began to unbutton his white shirt one painfully deliberate button at a time.
Still watching, she pushed her body into the center of the bed, one strap of her camisole hanging low on her shoulder. She leaned back on her elbows as she drank him in, waiting, wanting him to pounce.
Instead, he moved away toward the far wall and flicked a switch. A fire sprang to life inside the stone fireplace, giving the room a warm, sensuous feeling.
Bella smiled as the hunter returned, watching his prey spread out before him as he lost his shirt, flexing his muscles, ready to take the lamb to slaughter.